Oh, God. I had the crazy impulse to lean over and kiss him.
To cover it, I reached into my pocket and fumbled out my keys, sliding my car key off the key ring. I held it out to him. “It’s—”
“I know which one it is.” He took it from me, his fingers sliding over mine—deliberately, I thought. I tried not to show the shiver that went down my body. “Good night, Olivia.”
Belatedly, I remembered my manners. “Thank you,” I said. “For the ride.”
“Anytime.”
I grabbed the handle, opened the door, and got out of the car. I pulled my books to my chest and made a dash through the rain to the outside steps of Shady Oaks. I didn’t stop until I was under the overhang, ready to climb the steps to my apartment.
He should have gotten out, too. He lived in the same building, after all.
But when I turned and looked back, he was still sitting in the car, watching me. Just like I knew he would be.
Chapter 3
Devon
All my life, I’ve been dirty.
I was born dirty, in a rundown apartment, to two people with no money who hated each other. My brother and I ran wild on the streets of LA like stray cats, and we grew from dirty kids into dirty teenagers. I got my first car at sixteen, a used Datsun with half the floor rusted out, and I stole the money to get it.
I drove the Datsun until it wouldn’t go anymore, and then I got an ancient Chevy that looked like it had been junked from a 90’s TV show. I could drive that car over LA’s freeways better than just about any new car, and I never got tired of doing it. It was the only talent I had. While other guys my age were going to college and learning to be bankers and doctors and lawyers, I was becoming what you’d call a skilled driver. It was a profitable skill, if you knew who to sell it to.
Dad left when I was two. Mom died when I was sixteen. My brother Cavan, who was eighteen when Mom died, took off instead of looking after me. I didn’t blame him, but that left me. Alone. And, as always, dirty.
This morning, I was tired. I’d been up late last night, fixing my neighbor’s car. It was a pretty simple fix with just a few parts. But her shocks were going, she needed brake pads—I could go on and on. I’d patched the car up the best I could so she wouldn’t have to stand at a bus stop in the rain again, then slid the key through the mail slot on her door, imagining her on the other side somewhere, lying in bed. Maybe naked.
It was a really nice image. I pictured it instead of the car I was working on right now, my hands moving automatically as a movie played in my head. Olivia, my neighbor, with her hair down. Those dark curls around her face and her shoulders. That slender body naked, riding me. Her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her tits thrust forward as she came.
I hadn’t fixed her car to fuck her. But there was no rule against picturing it. In detail.
When I heard my name, I put the wrench I was holding on my chest and rolled out from beneath the car. It was Charlie Jensen, owner of Jensen’s Garage and my boss, who preferred, inexplicably, to be called Chaz.
Chaz was standing in the dirty concrete garage bay, looking down at me from his hard, fat face. “Devon Wilder,” he said. “My brother wants to see you.”
I squinted up at him. “Right now?”
“No, when the Queen takes tea,” Chaz said. “Of course right fucking now.”
I rolled myself up and tossed the wrench into a nearby toolbox. Chaz was a dick, and he had a stupid nickname, but he was sweetness and light compared to his brother. Gray Jensen—that was his actual name, Gray, not a nickname—was mean and cold and not quite stupid. He was the kind of guy I would normally avoid, but unfortunately I couldn’t. I had my reasons.
I walked to one of the garage lockers, unzipping my coverall. “I take it this means I’m done my shift,” I said, pulling the coverall off and wadding it up.
“Ha ha,” Chaz said. “Funny guy.” It was a bluff, and we both knew it. Chaz was scared of his brother. If Gray wanted to see me, there wasn’t a single thing Chaz would say about it.
I was wearing jeans, work boots, and a long-sleeved gray thermal. I had grease on my hands, but Gray wouldn’t care. He cared more about promptness than cleanliness. I pulled on a black nylon jacket and zipped it up to my chin.
“See you tomorrow, boss,” I said to Chaz.
“Hurry up,” Chaz barked as I walked to the door. “He’s in a shitty mood today.”
It was cold and foggy out—basically a textbook day for San Francisco. I’d grown up in LA, but after my mother’s death I’d had to move around to escape the foster system. I’d ended up here. It seemed weird that I’d like a city full of hipsters and would-be internet millionaires, but I did. Besides, the hipsters and millionaires never ventured this far south from downtown. This area was populated with warehouses and industrial units instead of Victorian mansions and trolley cars. That was fine with me. I just wanted to do my work and drive.
And it wasn’t LA. I had bad memories of LA—very, very bad memories. The kind I never talked about.
I did occasional runs down to the Mexican border, or up to the Oregon one. Hours alone on the road, watching for cops, with nothing but a stack of neatly wrapped drugs for company. But mostly I did other driving gigs. Stolen goods, guys who needed to get to the state line, guys who needed to be picked up at the state line. I’d driven at least ten loads of medicinal weed, complete with permits, which the cops couldn’t take me for. As long as I didn’t get taken down by hijackers and get my head blown off, I made money and drove in a pleasantly fragrant van. Easy work. I had a reputation as a trustworthy guy who could avoid the cops when needed and never dipped into the product.
The sun was beginning to set as I pulled up in front of Pure Gold and parked. Pure Gold was the strip club where Gray Jensen liked to conduct business. He didn’t own the place, but he practically lived there. He said it was because the noise in the club prevented anyone from catching his conversations on a wire. That sounded smart, but we all knew it was because he hoped one of the girls would finally fuck him.
It was barely seven o’clock, so there wasn’t much action in the strip club yet. The stage was still dark, but there were a few customers at the tables, and a couple of girls were circulating, looking for early-evening lap dances and tips. Gray usually worked from one of the VIP booths, so I nodded to the bartender, Henry, and started to walk on past.
A woman stepped in front of me, blocking my way. It was Amy, one of the strippers. She was wearing a naughty schoolgirl’s costume, consisting of a black push-up bra and a scrap of plaid skirt that barely covered her ass. Her blond hair was pulled into pigtails. She gave me a smile. “Come have a drink with me, sexy,” she said.
“Hey, Amy,” I said. “I have to go see Gray, but—”
She reached out a hand and put it on my waist beneath my jacket, curling her fingers around me and moving close. Her eyes stared into mine. “Have a drink with me, sexy,” she said again.
She was giving me signals that she had something to tell me. I wasn’t happy about it, but I followed her to the bar, where Henry poured a shot of vodka and pushed it toward me. “What is it?” I asked Amy.